Chapter Five

The Devil's Playground—Palermo 

Amara had never seen Palermo this way before.

The old city wore its sins like jewelry—too proud to hide, too bold to care. But tonight, it was a cathedral of shadows. The backseat of the black Maserati smelled like leather, lust and danger. Luca hadn’t spoken a word since they left Club Inferno, but the silence between them was louder than the pounding bass that had chased them into the night.

She sat rigid, her eyes fixed on the passing streets, though she was barely seeing them. Her skin still burned where he had touched her. Her lips ached from the force of his kiss.

She should've pulled away. Should've screamed. 

But she didn't. 

And now here she was, driving deeper into his world. 

They pulled into a narrow alley where vines strangled iron gates and the city seemed to exhale all its secrets. He Parkes without a word. The engine died, but the tension didn't. 

She turned to face him, her voice icy despite the war inside her. “Where are we?”

Luca looked at her, his dark eyes unreadable. “Somewhere no one will interrupt us.”

The words held no comfort. They didn't terrify her either. That was the worst part. Deep down, Amara wasn't sure if she wanted to escape. The part of her that should've been afraid was the same part that had always been drawn to him—to the power, the ruin, the raw fire of him.

He opened the door, came around, and pulled hers open before she could react. She stepped out into the night, the air thick with salt and smoke. Luca didn’t wait. He took her by the wrist—not roughly, but firmly—and led her up the iron stairs of a stone building. 

Inside, the place was nothing like she expected.

No bodyguards. No high-tech surveillance. Just quiet opulence. Dark wood floors. Heavy curtains. Walls lined with paintings that looked stolen from forgotten churches. There was something almost sacred in how quiet it was—like sin whispered here instead of screamed.

He finally let go of her wrist and turned toward the bar.

“Whiskey?” He asked, already pouring. 

She didn't answer. He handed her the glass anyway.

She took it.

And drank.

The burn steadied her.

He leaned back against the counter, swirling his drink slowly. His eyes roamed her like he had the right to look.

“You left me with no goodbye,” he said. Not angry. Just stating fact. “Vanished without a trace.”

“I had to,” she replied. “You know I did.”

Luca took a slow sip. Watching her over the rim of the glass. “Did I deserve that, gattina? After everything?”

Amara’s spine stiffened. “You don't get to play the victim. Not after what happened.”

He laughed, low and dangerous. “I was never the victim. But don’t rewrite history, Amara. You knew who I was. You liked it.”

“No,” she said quickly. “I survived it.”

He walked toward her then, slow deliberate, like he was stalking something fragile. He set his glass down on a nearby table. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I'm not lying,” she snapped. 

He reached out, his hand brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “Then why are you trembling?”

She slapped his hand away. “Don’t touch me.”

He smiled—not mocking this time, but amused. “You can't lie to me, cara Mia. I know your body better than you do.”

“Don’t pretend this is about desire,” she hissed. “You want to control me. You always did.”

“I want to own you,” he corrected, his voice low, primal. “Not like a possession. Like a vow. Like something the gods cursed me with.”

She shook her head, stepping back—but not too far.

“You're sick,” she said. “Twisted.”

“And yet,” he said, “you came with me.”

Amara hated how true that was. Hated how her body still responded to the magnetism in his voice, to the way his presence filled a room like a storm cloud. He didn't beg. He didn't ask. He commanded.

Luca stepped closer. She backed into the wall.

His hand pressed flat against it beside her head, caging her in. “Three years I searched for you.”

She turned her head. “And what? You want a reward? A thank you for hunting me down like a prey?”

“No,” he murmured. “I want you to understand what it did to me.”

She met his gaze and faltered. There was something beneath the predator's mask. Obsession. Pain. Need. Not weakness—Luca didn’tpossess such things—but something dark and ancient. 

“You could've moved on,” she said softly. 

“I did,” his voice dropped rough. “From the illusion that anyone could ever replace you.”

She swallowed hard. “And now?”

“I'm done pretending I can live without you.”

His hand gripped her hip, possessive, dangerous. She gasped, not from fear, but from the way his touch lit her nerves on fire.

“You're insane,” she whispered. 

“I'm Sicilian,” he said. “And you're mine.”

The heat that sparked between them was molten now, fierce and hungry.

She hated him for it.

She hated herself more for not stopping it.

“Luca—”

But his mouth was already on hers. 

And this time, she didn't resist.

She opened for him like a flame catching wind—sudden, unstoppable. His tongue claimed her like it had a right to, like it  remembered every inch of her body and demanded it back.

Her hands found his shoulders. Then his chest. Then the hem of his shirt, desperate for skin.

He growled against her lips, pinning her harder.

She moaned into him, the sound fury, half surrender. 

He broke away long enough to whisper, “you have no idea what I've become without you.”

And she believed it.

Because she had tasted the ruin in his kiss. Felt the madness in his touch.

This was no love story.

It was a war.

And she was already bleeding for it.